


With Her There Comes A Hunger

by geckoholic



Series: Absolution Calling [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blindfolds, Breathplay, Consensual Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Experimental Kink, F/M, Fear Play, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kink Negotiation, Knifeplay, Nightmares, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4408730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Natasha's been anxious to try this out a better way, with less desperation and uncertainty and worry. Less of the whispered voice in the back of her head telling her that she's reveling in hurting the man she loves and shouldn't be allowed near him ever again. </em>
</p><p>Stumbling into kink, assassins style: not quite a conclusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Her There Comes A Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so. This was supposed to be the last part, and it sort of is, seeing how the, shall we say, emotional journey I set out to put them on is done. We have arrived at the potential for consensual, sort-of-sane and sort-of-healthy kink, but I might get it into my head to write them some of that properly negotiated, less issue-laden, happy play that everyone involved (including me, I mean, _thirty-thousand words_ ) worked so hard to achieve and that isn't actually happening in this one quite yet. Maybe. Possibly. Most likely? 
> 
> This is based on a mix of ~old MCU canon and comics backstory, in total disregard of AOU canon. Just so you know what to expect.
> 
> Beta-read by andibeth82, enigma731 (both of whom also helped me a lot with brain storming and reassured me time and time again that this was worth writing and finishing, only occasionally by threatening bodily harm if _don't_ finish) and tastewithouttalent, my own personal smut wizard. Thanks to all three of you! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Halos Of The Son" by Fuel.

She's fourteen and her training has been going on for a long time, but it's not yet done. There are still more things to learn, so many things: how to deceive and seduce, how to trick and hurt. The latter is her lesson for today: in front of her on a metal table lies a boy not much older than herself. It occurs to her that she has never seen males under the age of, say, twenty that weren't a means to an end, a tool to teach her _something_. No place for them in the Red Room otherwise. Boys don't become Black Widows. Around here, boys get eaten by them. 

He's struggling in leather restraints, fully clothed but nevertheless laid bare before her in every way that matters. Helpless, given to her to hone a skill that cannot be taught in theory. She knows of anatomy and pressure points, but for learning how to hurt in order to extract information, there is no alternative to the reactions of another human body. It isn't her first lesson of this kind; today she has not been given any weapons. All she has are her bare hands, her knowledge and a small box of household items that are hers to improvise with as she pleases. Her handler sits in a chair in the corner of the room, watching, judging, taking notes. She goes to work. He has been given a secret code word, and it is her task to extract it from him. What's going to happen to him after he does, she doesn't know, but she imagines it won't be pleasant. 

By the time she hears the chair being drawn back and the door opening, the boy is writhing, eyes wet with tears. They told her his name – Andrej – but she already learned that it's easier to forget it for as long as she's working on him. She's broken a few smaller, brittle bones in his hand first and it's swelling red and bloated. Currently, she's exacting pressure on a sensitive nerve bundle in his thigh. He's biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. When they both hear the door closing, his head whips around, his eyes looking straight at her with an expression that implies they might not be hunter and prey but peers, like they share a secret and now that they're alone, they can discuss it. He's smiling, almost, as much as the pain allows. Perhaps he still considers this to be a game, just for show. Perhaps he doesn't realize that the mission might be a construct but the consequences are real. There is no failing the program; there's success or there's death. His eyes go wide when she doesn't stop, doesn't grant him a reprieve now that they're without supervision but presses in harder. He resorts to silent, wordless begging, everything in his gaze calling for her to stop. His lips move, no sound coming out yet but she can almost hear it anyway, the word that will end all this. She lets up and he breathes out, smiling again. For a few seconds, she lets him believe that she's heard him, that she’s understood, that they're in this together. Then she turns to dig around in her box of tools, producing a small paperclip and holding it up for him to inspect before she uncurls it, bending down and pinning his hand flat to the table. She pushes the edge of the clip slowly into the flesh of his thumb, right underneath the nail, and he screams. It doesn't take much longer, after that. 

Her handler comes back fifteen minutes later, and she gives him the code word. He smiles, cups her face, and tells her she did good. 

 

 

*****

 

 

Clint scratches at his wrist – newly splint-less and declared to be healed as of three days ago – in a nervous gesture, working away a phantom itch. They're at her place, cleaning up after one of these times she's convinced him they ought to eat something other than takeout and actually _cook_ , and he's about to bring up the very conversation they've been dancing around for the past couple of weeks. It’s hung between them, unfinished, ever-present, both of them aware it had to happen but waiting for the right time, the perfect moment. Well, he's done waiting. 

“I've been thinking,” he says, casually, as he accepts a dripping plate from her and wraps his dishcloth around it. 

Natasha looks up, eyebrows cocked. “Now I'm scared.” 

“Funny.” Leaning his hip against the counter, he sets the plate down on top of its counterpart, already dried and ready to be put away. “I mean, I've been thinking about, uh. What you wanted me to think about. What I like, what I don't like. You know.” 

“What I...” She narrows her eyes at him, seemingly lost, and yeah, he can't blame her. Talking kink preferences over washing the dishes isn’t the most likely idea. He's about to elaborate when the penny drops and her expression smoothes out with understanding. “Oh. _That._ “ Unfazed by his timing, she bends over the sink again, which is almost empty except for a mug and some cutlery. “So tell me.” 

He folds the dishcloth around his hand as he waits for the next item to be passed his way. “I'm not sure there's many things I really wouldn't do? Or maybe I'm just lacking imagination. And I don't expect you to spring the extreme shit on me anyway.” 

“Not many things,” she says, still not looking his way; on purpose, he suspects, to make it easier for him to talk. “So there are some?” 

With a sigh, he picks up the plates and puts them away. “Yeah. There are. I don't want to do anything... demeaning? I mean, like the slap. Stuff that's too much like, I don't know, being disciplined.” 

“You mean something that's akin to punishing a child?" she asks, turning around and holding out the mug for him to take. Her expression softens when their eyes meet, and her mouth turns up into a sad smile. "I do pay attention, you know. Also, as you're aware, I read your file.” 

He takes the mug and holds her gaze for as long as he can stand; it's not very long. “Yeah. Something like that.” 

The sloshing of water in the sink starts up again as she goes back to work. “Good. Noted. Anything else?” 

“Nothing I can think of,” he says, realizing that the mug in his hand is still wet and dripping soapy water onto the floor. He dries it with a few quick movements and sets it aside. 

“There’s something I want to veto, too,” Natasha replies. She's silent while she takes care of the cutlery in the sink, pulls the plug, and takes the dishcloth from him to dry them herself. Each piece meets the plastic in the cutlery drawer with a dull thunk. “The cuffs. We’re not doing that again.” 

As much as he's disappointed about that veto – and he is – he sort of expected it. He scratches at his wrist again. She's right. It's too high a gamble, too much of a risk, endangering his hands like that. “Yeah. Okay.” 

“We’ll find other ways to get you where you need to go.” She pulls back a chair, nods at the other, and sits. “Tell me what you want, what's important to you about this.” 

He sits down opposite of her and swallows. This is the hard part; the one he'd rather just _do_. The idea of talking about where it all comes from, trying to put into words what goes through his head when he's putting himself into her hands for her to do with him as she pleases – it makes his skin crawl. “It's about... Fuck. Gaining control about things I didn't have control over when they happened to me the first time? Wow, that sounds wrong.” 

“No,” she says, laying her hand on the table between them, open, palm up; an invitation for contact, for him to take or leave as he needs it. He hesitates, but does reach out, and she squeezes gently. “No, it doesn't sound wrong. Keep going. Tell me.” 

He inhales, swallows again, his throat dry. “Okay. What you said last time, about riding an edge? That's pretty accurate, I think. There needs to be an element of fear, a certain push. Bad memories, however tangentially related. Bit of pain's good too, but I think that's more of a chicken-egg situation. It's part of it, not the main point.” 

“Okay.” She nods. “I can work with that. And we're going to talk about what I'm going to do beforehand. No more surprises. During, I'll need you to warn me when you're tipping over. There's a color system – green, yellow, red – and I want you to tell me when you're anything but green.” 

Her expression all throughout is businesslike, neutral, like they're mapping out a mission, and for some reason the combination of that and the things she's saying... He can't keep a bit of a grin from spreading on his face. “You really did google this, didn't you?” 

“Yes. I did google it.” Although her lips twitch too, she doesn't give in, stays serious. “We're going to set up a safeword, too. Promise me you'll use it, when it comes to that. I'm not really keen on seeing you spiral into panic while I'm supposed to make you feel good ever again.” 

The look of genuine concern on her face is too much; he averts his eyes. “I will. I promise.” 

“I think we're done for the moment, unless there's something else you want to talk about?” He shakes his head, and she runs her thumb over the back of his hand, pushes her chair back and stands. “I'll go change, these clothes smell like a fast food restaurant.” She's halfway to the door when she turns around to wink at him. “You're free to join me.” 

 

*** 

 

They manage to dance around it for two more days. Unlike before, there's no indication he's in a bad place; he's been going up and down the whole time, but no worse than usual. It makes her think, makes her hope, that he just plain _wants_ it for a change. Maybe a bit of curiosity – Natasha knows she's been anxious to try this out a better way, with less desperation and uncertainty and worry. Less of the whispered voice in the back of her head telling her that she's reveling in hurting the man she loves and shouldn't be allowed near him ever again. 

She's coming out of his bathroom that evening, wearing sweatpants and a large t-shirt and toweling her hair, and Clint's standing in the doorway to the bedroom, both hands gripping the door frame above him, looking at her, calm but determined. The only thing cluing her in to the fact that he's more nervous than he lets on is the tension in his shoulders and arms as they're stretched out over his head. He showered before her, didn't bother getting dressed beyond his boxers, and she looks him up and down, takes him in. 

“I'm still not sure what I'm supposed to be asking for,” he says, honest-to-god smirking, and it's so good to see right now, setting a tone for this that's different to last time's quiet urgency. “But I _am_ asking.” 

“Good enough for me,” she replies, smiling back, gestures towards his crotch while she discards the towel. He takes the hint, eyes raking over her body for a moment before he straightens up and slides the boxers down, stepping out of them and into the room. 

Expression sobering somewhat, he stops at arm’s length from her and points at the bed with his thumb. “The usual?”

“Yes,” she says, trying to refrain from reaching out to touch him but finding no reason why she shouldn't. She runs her fingertips over his stomach, up his chest, smiling wider as he shudders. “First though, we've got to take care of some... formalities.” 

He sighs. “Ah. The safeword?” 

“Yeah, for one. Pick something.” 

Time stretches endlessly as he thinks about that, forehead creasing in thought. He's staring right at her intently, as if to gauge her reaction, when he says, “Algier.” 

It's her turn to shudder, gaze flicking to the set of scars on his upper body from that spectacular misfire of a mission, and when she looks back up to meet his eyes she knows what she's going to do to him tonight. “Good. Now that's out of the way, you know what to do. On the bed, on your back. If you want, grip the ribs of the headboard, but that's your choice.” 

She waits until he's in position – he does wrap his hands around the steel of headboard – before she tells him to stay still and not move and leaves the room to get her mission bag. She picks a small knife, rinses it out under the kitchen sink first and then, hiding it underneath her t-shirt, slips into the bathroom to disinfect it. He's craning his head when she comes back out and she reveals it slowly, letting the light of the overhead lamp reflect from the blade as she holds it out for him to see. 

“You're going...” He licks his lips. “You're going to use that?” 

Natasha nods. “Yeah. Unless you veto it.” 

He takes a moment before he answers, holding her eyes. “Not vetoing.”

His expression is determined, concentrated, like he's been given a task and doesn't plan on failing it, but there's a tense edge to his voice that makes something in her stomach curl. She knows that's part of what he's chasing, that he needs it, but she's still not sure whether she'll ever get over the twinge in her gut that comes with intentionally making him afraid. Maybe she shouldn't get over it; maybe the day she did would be the last time they could do this safely. 

“Color,” she demands as she quickly undresses, leaving her clothes where they fall. 

He cocks an eyebrow. “We've barely gotten started.” 

Natasha walks up to the bed, turning the knife in her hand. She sits down on the edge of the bed, next to his hip, and lightly runs the tip of the blade down his ankle – not enough pressure to draw blood, just enough for him to feel it. “I know. _Color._.” 

His gaze zeroes in on where the cold metal touches his skin and he licks his lips again. “Green.” 

“Good,” she says, withdrawing the knife and laying it onto the nightstand. She shifts around so she can lean in to kiss him deeply while she slides a hand down his body and wraps it around his cock. His eyes close on a moan as she starts stroking him slowly, lazily, an attempt to get him to relax into this and soothe away some of the tension. He draws his legs up and lets them fall wide, giving her better access. She tries to keep a clear head despite the noises he's making, listening to the sound of his breathing underneath and monitoring when he's ready; the point at which the arousal lulls him enough to lessen the impact of the kind of memories they've set out to summon and turn on their head. 

“Open your eyes.” With one last twist on the upstroke she lets go of his erection, bends forward to retrieve the knife. “Do you trust me?” 

“I do,” he replies, voice tight, face flushed. The look in his eyes when he opens them to meet hers is resolute, tinged with an edge of apprehension. “You know that.” 

She resists the urge to reach out and cup his face with her palm, lean in and kiss the fear away before it can mount. But that's the exact opposite of the point. It's not her job to soothe the fear away; she's here to help him control it, own it, exorcise it. She runs the tip of the blade ever so lightly down the side of his torso, his gaze following the motion as she increases the pressure enough to break the skin, tiny beads of blood welling up in the path of the knife. He hisses, and she can't quite figure out if it's pain or pleasure. The sting can't be so bad; he's had much, much worse. She does it again a little lower and this time he stays quiet, sucking his lower lip between his teeth, forehead creased. His stomach muscles ripple, cringing as he suppresses the instinctive need to get away, but otherwise he's not moving at all, poised like he's waiting for a trigger to either attack or flee. Something about this is off kilter, too much too fast, unbalanced. If it weren't for the fact that he's still hard, she'd be worried he was sliding straight into another flashback, and the memory of that disastrous night makes her blood run cold. 

She turns the knife up, hides it behind her back before she stands, just to kneel back down on the bed, bracing her free hand on his chest as she moves to straddle him so that her cunt lines up just so above his cock. She lowers herself down a little further, rocking back and forth, not taking him in just yet but rather rubbing herself against him, letting him feel the wetness she wasn't even aware of, too distracted by cataloging his reactions to pay attention to her own body's response. He groans, swears, one hand almost coming off the headboard before he grips it harder instead. Her lips curls into a small smile, relief flowing through her when she finds it reciprocated. 

Feeling reassured, she produces the knife again and draws it down his chest, nicking him every so often on the way down, each time accompanied by a swivel of her hips. She feels his dick twitch where it's pressed against her; his lip is still caught between his teeth, but beneath her his body isn't so rigid anymore, not poised for fight or flight. He's moving with her, now, not away, although it's shallow and controlled – she's still using a knife on him, too much unexpected movement on his part could cause serious damage and he's not dumb enough to forget about that for even a second. His gaze flickers between meeting her eyes and tracking the knife as she lets it slide lower and lower; she lifts herself up so she can trace it past the joint of leg and groin, still further down, and he freezes, holding himself perfectly still, eyes going wide as the tip of the knife passes the base of his cock, his balls. She keeps it there, hovering just above the skin for a second, two, three, before she withdraws it slowly. 

“Color?” she asks, and he screws his eyes shut for a second, making a face, as if he needs to haul himself back from wherever his mind goes when they do this before he can formulate a response. 

“Green,” he finally replies, raw and breathless. “I'm okay. Keep going.”

She moves her wrist the tiniest bit, more for show than anything else, before she goes about dragging the knife back up; he rewards her with a noise from low in his throat, desperate and uninhibited, the only outlet he's got right now. The only outlet _she's_ leaving him with, and the thought makes her head spin, makes her nerves thrum with excitement. His eyes are still pinned to every infinitesimal movement of her hand on the knife, his lips parted slightly, his entire being focused solely on what she's doing to him. No, not _to_ him, she reminds herself; what she's doing _for_ him. 

The very moment the blade is far enough from the most delicate parts of his anatomy, he exhales sharply and shudders, knuckles going white with how hard he's clinging to the ribs of the headboard. She settles back down, swallowing a moan of her own as the head of his cock slides through the folds of her cunt in all the right ways, electrifying and making her ache for more. He bucks his hips and grins, having read her reaction. Good to know he's still got the brain space to be bratty; she'll need to work on that. 

Leaning back, she puts the knife on the bed, licks the pad of her thumb and reaches between them. She grips his dick, spreading the saliva over the head. “Condom, please.” 

He takes his time, arches up into her touch, pumps his hips; she's thinking about ways to encourage a little more discipline when he finally removes his hands from the headboard and leans over to open the drawer of the nightstand, fish for a condom wrapper and hand it to her so she can rip it open and roll the condom on. Holding it in place with two fingers, she lowers herself down bit by bit, stopping ever so often, savoring the sensation of having him breach her, fill her. She circles her hips in small motions designed to get him exactly where she wants him, time and time again, pleasure sparking through her. He doesn't push, doesn't thrust, lets her use him as she pleases as she adjusts her position just so, moaning whenever she hits something particularly pleasant. Briefly, he bends forward to run his hands over her thighs and the muscles working there, then settles down again and goes back to gripping the headboard. For some reason it makes her angry; she did tell him it was his choice whether he wanted to disallow himself the use of his hands for this, but now that he made a choice and went against it, it seems like an affront. Something that deserves punishment, makes her want to pick up the pace. 

She reaches for the knife, brings it to his throat. He sucks in a breath, then another when she settles against him, driving him in deep, and flexes the muscles in her lower abdomen to clench around him whilst putting enough pressure on the blade to produce a small drop of blood. “Move.”

The command seems to take a moment to register, but then he does _move_ , driving into her with thrusts as thorough and sinuous as his position beneath her allows. Each of them ignites her anew, makes her moan and breathe out his name and circle her hips in a rhythm that counters his, their familiarity with each other's bodies enabling him to get the angle just right even with little leverage. He's whispering as well, but it's too low for her to hear; it seems more like he's talking to himself, murmuring something she's not meant to catch. His eyes find hers and there's so much going on in his gaze; lust and fear and determination and something else she can't quite name, that he probably couldn't identify himself were she to ask him right now. He looks a little bit like he's begging, and she doesn't know whether it's asking her to stop or asking her to go further, push harder, get him to the limit and beyond.

For the first time she thinks she understands what's happening inside his head when they do this; there's images and fragmented memories tugging at her, too, flashes from a different life, another man laid out in front of her in an entirely different context and for an entirely different purpose. It excites her, mixes with the physical pleasure to create something unique and addictive, but unlike Clint she shoves the memory back into the place it's been hiding all those years, even as it makes her nerves thrum and her head swim even harder than before. She's going to use it, though; knowing how to break someone is a skill that has been ingrained in her with great care, and for once, she can employ it to give pleasure rather than agony.

The knife lands on the nightstand again; his eyes follow it as she puts it away, but snap back to her face in a flash when she brushes a finger past the tiny cut at his throat to collect the blood, bringing it to her mouth and licking it off. She places her palm above his collarbone, caressing the skin there with her thumb, slightly pressing down and upwards, and his eyes widen with understanding. But even so, they agreed nothing would happen without talking about it, without giving him a chance to refuse, and it won't be enough to go on gestures and facial expressions or the way he's still thrusting up, still moving, still sending spikes of heat through her core. 

“I want to choke you,” she says, fighting to keep her voice neutral. 

He swallows; she can feel the bob of his adam's apple as well as see it. “Yes,” he says, breaking into a grin. “Take my breath away.” 

“Whoa, that was awful,” she chides, accentuating it with a sharp twist of her hips, making him gasp and thrust up into her in response, which has her sucking in a breath in return. “If you're anything less than okay, I want you to pull your hands away from the headboard and give me a signal. Understood?” 

He nods, and she shifts her hand so it rests over his throat, pausing, giving him a moment to reconsider. When he doesn't, she hooks her hand underneath his jaw, fingers splayed wide, and pushes upward. He sucks in a breath, or tries to, anyway; she's restricting his intake of air, and that realization seems to only make him more desperate to inhale, fill his lungs. He arches up a little, as if instinct commands him to throw her off, get control of the situation, and she's suddenly unsure, reminded of the look of terror on his face when she slapped him and he tumbled over the edge right in front of her. 

She lessens the pressure, about to pull her hand away completely and think of something else, maybe get the knife again, when his hand settles over hers. At first she thinks it's the signal, that he's calling this off, but then their eyes meet and she recognizes the gesture for what it is: encouragement. Reassurance. He nods again, slow and accentuated, smiles a little, draws his head back so he's literally baring his neck to her. He withdraws his hand from hers and curls it around her wrist, guiding the amount of pressure she uses as she bears down again, pulling at her when he needs to come up for air until she figures out how to read his reactions by herself and they find a rhythm. Pressure, release, pressure; all the while he starts thrusting in earnest, erratic movements that still manage to send a jolt up her spine each time, make it that much harder to concentrate on _him_. She's not even sure he's aware he's doing it, his body falling back onto autopilot in the face of such conflicting sensations, chasing more of everything without conscious thought. There's a faraway look on his face, almost like he's concentrating, and maybe he is, precariously balanced on that edge they've set out to put him in the first place. 

Bearing down on his throat once more, Natasha licks the thumb of her other hand, this time to smear saliva over the one of the cuts on his rib cage and rub at it, knowing it'll sting just a bit, just right hopefully, another sensation to add to the fold. Simultaneously, she's lifting her hips, angling them and slamming back down onto his cock so hard it's bordering on discomfort, making her gasp. He cries out, the sound somehow pressed out through his restricted airway, and fucks up into her in return, then again; she increases the pressure on his throat one last time before she takes both her hands off his body, leaning back to ride him through his orgasm, his release, his exorcism. 

Once he's done, she bends forward for a lazy, lingering kiss before sliding off him. His gaze follows her as she climbs off the bed. 

“Where are you going?” he asks, rolling over to get a box of tissues from the nightstand and clean himself up. He's still panting hard, and if she looks close enough she can see marks on his neck from where she’s held him down, although she doesn't think they'll bruise. 

“Bathroom.” She motions for him to hand her the condom; he looks confused for a moment, then ties it off and wraps it into a tissue and holds it out for her to grab. She takes it from him. “I'll be right back.” 

Her escape in here serves two purposes; one is to get the supplies she'll need to take care of him, now, after, and the other is... well. Every nerve ending in her body still screams for the climax she forfeited to give him his release. And that's what she wanted; that's what this was about. She's not going to demand of him to return the favor, not now. She sits down on the closed toilet lid, brings herself off quickly and with the mental image of the expression on his face when he realized she was choking him in earnest. As she sits there, panting, the porcelain of the tank cool her against her back, the part of her brain that's not sex-crazed and dizzy balks at drawing so much satisfaction from freaking him out. But she shoves that away, vows to examine it tomorrow.

Not long after their conversation, she’d deposited a few half-liter bottles of sports drinks and juice in one of his rarely used bathroom cupboards – it may his place, but most of them are now filled with her things, makeup and hair products, and he barely ever touches them. She gathers one of the bottles and antiseptic wipes from the first aid kit and heads back into the bedroom. 

She sits down on the edge of the bed and shoves the bottle at him. “Drink.” 

“This is your googling at work again, isn't it?” He sits up and frowns at her, but does take the bottle; his movements are slow, just a little sluggish, and all of a sudden he looks tired, weary and spent; enough not to put up a show and fight her on this, and she's glad. 

“Quit bitching and drink,” she chides, even as he unscrews the cap and puts it to his lips. “Try to see this as a training session, you'd make sure to stay hydrated after one of those, too.” 

She waits until he's emptied the bottle without protest, then disposes of it and begins to meticulously clean each of the cuts. None of them are deep or likely to get infected, but she's not going to take any chances. She also finds she likes the ritual of it, as if she's washing them both clean of the pain and fear she inflicted – that he _asked_ her to inflict. He watches her wordlessly, not making a sound, although the disinfectant contained in the wipes must sting, an occasional flinch the only sign of discomfort. His eyes droop closed every so often; he's obviously fighting to stay awake. But he waits, and once she's finished, he lifts his arm in quiet invitation. 

Natasha kisses him again, then crawls over his body, settling into the space his outstretched arm makes for her, face pressed to his neck. She's asleep within minutes. 

 

***

 

He wakes to an orchestra of tiny aches – faintly sore muscles from a job days past, a slight sting from some of the shallow cuts on his torso every time he moves, and a rasp in his throat – and a warm, content sensation in his belly. It's bright daylight, probably sometime around noon. He's slept in. 

The bed next to him is empty, but he hears the shower going. Clint rubs at his eyes and yawns, then swings his legs out of bed and pads into the bathroom without bothering to get dressed. He announces his presence by briefly sticking his hand through the shower curtain and goes on to wash his face with cold water and brush his teeth. He's just gotten out his razor when Natasha peeks her head out of the shower. 

“Oh, look, it lives,” she teases, wearing a smile that's a little too perfect to be genuine, and something in him tenses. “I thought you might've gone into hibernation.” 

“Actually, when it happens during summer, it's called estivation.” He averts his eyes, focusing on his own face in the mirror instead as he begins shaving. Aside from the cut at his throat and the rest of them spread along his body, he doesn't wear any marks. As much of a pain as it would be to cover up visible bruises from the choking, he would've preferred them to be there, to have proof of everything that happened last night. 

Natasha steps out of the shower and reaches for a towel in one smooth motion. “Smartass.” 

“Just correcting wrong vocabulary,” he jokes; at this point her English might be more sophisticated than his, what with the slang that sneaks in when he doesn't pay attention. He seeks her gaze through the mirror, but she doesn't do him the favor of returning it. They're dancing around something here, and he's got no idea what it might be, so he takes a stab in the dark. “Showering again?” 

She shrugs. “Felt sweaty from last night.” 

It'd be so easy to let himself believe that and tell the weird feeling this whole exchange left him with to get lost. Sex, summer heat – it makes sense. Maybe there's nothing wrong with her; maybe it's him, interpreting too much into things that aren't there because last night took so much out of him and, calm as he might feel, his nerves are still a little frayed. He lets it go for now, watches her turn her back and walk into the bedroom, leaving the door open as she gets dressed. 

 

***

 

Steve and Sam wait for her at the entrance of the former SHIELD facility they've appropriated for the kind of spy work that doesn't have a place at the tower; too risky, too dirty, more black than gray. Or, in one word: detainment. Pepper Potts allows a lot of things to happen under the roof of her company, but housing and interrogating captured Hydra agents doesn't have a place in that world. 

She follows them both down a hallway and into an elevator that takes them below ground. She knows this building – it's far from the first time she's put her skill set to use here. The building is a little worse for the wear, seeing how it hasn't been properly maintained anymore in the months since SHIELD fell, but it's functional and, more importantly, self-sufficient, with a generator for power and closed circuits for water and air. Completely off the books. 

Out of the fifteen available cells, only three are currently occupied. The first time they were down here, Natasha expected both Steve and Sam to flinch away from what they all agreed had to be done, but neither of them ever did. She keeps forgetting that, beneath the righteous propaganda surrounding Steve and Sam's gentle demeanor, the fact that they're both soldiers. They've both seen war. They both know asking nicely isn't always the way to the truth, and it isn't like she's cutting people open. She wouldn't do that anymore, not for anyone. But once they're here, there's no conning them anymore. Some pressure has to be applied. 

Their most recent catch is in his late thirties. He used to be an analyst with SHIELD before he graduated to hacking and easy field work for Hydra. Not for the first time she wonders how many of the people now aligned with Hydra were actual sleeper agents, and how many saw themselves in a tight spot and turned their sails to the wind. He grins at her when she enters the room, a cocky display, but she can sense the fear he tries to hide in the way he shifts in his restraints, his eyes immediately zeroing in on the small leather bag she's carrying. He's afraid of her. He should be. 

She draws back the chair opposite from him, letting it audibly drag over the concrete floor, and sits down. “You can make this easy on yourself. We'll have a little chat, and then you'll be handed off to the authorities with a note of your valued cooperation.” 

He sets his jaw, the grin fading off his face. That's a no for the easy way, then. 

She leans forward, arms braced on the metal table between them, and gives him her most feral smile. “Last chance. You're not going to like the hard way.” 

Still no answer; he looks away, but he doesn't say a word. Natasha bends down slowly to retrieve her bag. She has no intention of using its contents, hasn't done so in close to a decade, but he doesn't know that. He sucks in a breath between his teeth when she produces a leather kit with an assortment of small scalpels, tweezers and scissors, not unlike the tools an old timey country doctor would carry around, and lays it out in front of him. 

“We both know you're aware of why you're here. You know what I want to hear.” She pulls out a scalpel, then a second one, slowly puts them down on the table between them, just out of his reach. “Tell me, and this will be over before it really starts.” 

His arms strain against the cuffs chaining him to the chair, making them rattle. He startles at the sound of metal clinking against metal, as if it wasn't a conscious motion, and she smiles again. 

“All I need is the time and the exact location. You give me that, and we're done here,” Natasha says, inclining her head, making her features shift into a rueful mask. “I don't want to do this. You don't want me to do this. Common interests, right?” 

He glances up at her briefly, but with the magnetism, the single-minded focus of fear, his eyes quickly return to the scalpels in front of her. He couldn't be any clearer about how terrified he is if he'd be shouting it at her. “Fuck you.” 

“That's not very nice.” Every move slow and deliberate, she stands, picks up one of the scalpels and turns it around in her hand. “Did no one ever teach you how to talk to a lady?” 

With his back pressed to the chair, he shies away from her as much as his limited range of movement allows. Nevertheless, he tips his chin up, juts it out at her in a show of bravado she's rather sure he doesn't actually possess. Not bad for a computer nerd with little to no training and hardly any field experience. She'd be impressed, if she didn't have more important concerns. 

She stands by his right side, bends to forcibly uncurl the fist he's making in his handcuffs, laying his hand out flat on the arm rest of the chair and immediately pressing down on the tendons in his wrist to keep his palm up and open. She brushes her thumb along the skin once before she brings down the scalpel to cut along the length of it. He yelps, fighting to draw his hand back. Blood wells up from the cut, smearing the skin. 

“Time and location,” Natasha repeats. 

He shakes his head violently – brave little traitor – but fails to hide his fear, pure terror painted all over his face. She lets the scalpel dance over the meaty flesh near his thumb, along his wrist, just long enough to let the implication sink in; one well-placed stroke of the blade and he'd be halfway to bleeding out within minutes. There's some part of her that wants to go there, wants to up the ante and give him a simple choice while he's already feeling the life seep out of him, but that's not who she is anymore. This Natasha merely flirts with the possibility, excels in pretending that's the final outcome. He's trembling all over already. All she needs is the push that comes from making him believe she'd go that far. 

“Time and location,” she says again. “Come on, you're not willing to die for them. You're not that dumb.” 

His chest heaves with labored breaths. “I'm dead either way. If I tell you, I'm toast too.” 

“That's a difficult situation.” She digs out a sympathetic note to her voice, paired just so with a hint of mocking, as she rounds his chair until she's standing behind him. She reaches around and brings the scalpel to his throat, nicks him beneath the jaw for emphasis. He croaks out a silent cry. Adrenaline sloshes through her as she mimics the path across his throat that the scalpel would take, the accelerating feeling that comes from having the power to end someone's life with a single motion. With her other hand she caresses his cheek, making his head jerk on instinct before he's got time to remember that he's got a deadly sharp blade to his throat and would be better off staying very, very still. 

There's an art to this, and a passion; the ability to read someone's reactions and predict their breaking point, pushing them exactly the right way, and Natasha can practically taste his surrender when she drags the scalpel down his throat hard enough to make him feel it, enough to make him bleed without doing actual damage. He whines, and she's so close to his face that she can feel hot tears wetting his skin, rolling down his cheek and onto her fingers. She smiles despite herself, satisfied, and – 

– the scalpel clatters to the floor, slipping out of her grip. She draws back in slow motion, simultaneously excited and disgusted by the blood clinging to her hand; his blood, smeared all over his throat, too much of it, and for a second she's afraid she went too far, lost control, killed their best lead. She didn't, of course. He's panting and murmuring silent pleas and he’s exactly where she wants him, but she can't do it now. Can't go in for the proverbial kill, can’t give him that last shove that would make him tell her everything. There's a monster breathing down her neck, and if she's not getting out of here, getting away from him right this second, it's going to be all she is. She's going to become it through and through; an animal in human form, a weapon, barely contained. 

The door falls closed behind her with a dull thud. Steve and Sam turn around at the same time, both of them staring at her expectantly. 

“You got him?” Steve asks, and she can't look at him when she shakes her head. 

“Not quite. But I...” She fishes for the right words, only to find lots of wrong ones. “I needed a moment.” 

A moment to pull back, to remind herself that there's more to her than the ability to break people. That's the downside of figuring out how to be a person; Natasha the person has needs and wants that insist on being addressed, she has limits and qualms. She's less effective. 

The concerned glance Steve exchanges with Sam is unwelcome, makes her feel ashamed, self-conscious, sloppy. Next thing she knows, they're gonna ask her if she's _alright_ , and what a stupid question that would be. Anyone able to do what she did in there can't be _alright_ while they do it. But it's a necessity sometimes, still, and the potential number of victims if they don't succeed in heading the attack off at the pass is more important than what it might cost her to accomplish that. She'll be fine. She'll deal. 

Natasha wipes her palm down on her suit as well as she can; the red doesn't show on the black, and there's an analogy in there somewhere. She zips her suit up further, for no reason other than having something to do with her hands. 

Then she goes back in, determined to finish what she started. 

 

***

 

Clint and Natasha are walking to her place from some sort of get together at Stark's – not another press event, just the handful of them, drinking and talking and now it's just past midnight and they've gone their separate ways. Natasha suggested they might walk, even though it would take them almost an hour, and he didn't mind; there's not a cloud in the sky, it’s a warm summer night with a little breeze to keep the heat at bay. She's got her fingers twined with his and they're dawdling, neither of them in much of a hurry, when she abruptly stops and tugs at his hand until he turns around and raises an eyebrow. 

“Do you think we're good for each other?” she asks. 

Her face is a blank mask, the purposeful emptiness that drives him insane, doesn't give him any clues as to where this might be coming from or what she's after. Clint stares at her, trying to make sense of the question, and she's patiently staring back. 

“Well,” he starts, then pauses, stalling. “I think we're not _bad_ for each other.”

She rolls her eyes. “That's not an answer.” 

“I'm not sure what you want to hear,” he admits. 

Natasha squints at him and frowns. “What I mean is, do you think we'd be better off with someone who doesn't know what's out there? Who grew up with a loving mother and a doting father and doesn't know what it's like to truly be alone? Someone who never saw the light going out in the eyes of a person whose life they took?” 

“Maybe we would be. Maybe it'd be easier sometimes,” he says, because that's the truth, and they've never given each other anything less. “But I don't want that. Because with you, I don't have to explain myself. I know I won't be judged. And neither are you, in case that's what this is about.” 

She doesn't say anything else, turns around and starts walking again. She's quiet all the way to her place, and he knows better than to push. Later that night, he wakes to noises from the other side of the bed, and he's well able to put the pieces together: her mission the week prior and tonight's question and now a bad dream. He might not know the specifics, but he's familiar with the fallout, has both seen it and lived through it more times than he can count. 

He switches the light on and says her name, then again, louder. He waits until she blinks her eyes open and the shadows of the nightmare have faded from them before he brushes a stray lock of red hair out of her face and brings their foreheads together. _I understand_ , he wants to say. _This is why._

But he doesn't. 

 

***

 

One of the best aspects of being with someone who shares so many of her experiences is that he understands the need for quiet comfort in the middle of the night. One of the worst is that she has to face him the morning after. 

He pads into the kitchen in boxers and a ratty t-shirt about fifteen minutes after she gets up, yawning wide. She knows she woke him, and that they both got less sleep than they'd deserved. She also knows he wouldn't listen if she told him to go back to sleep, it's barely six, there's no sense in both of them being awake this early. 

Quietly, he takes the coffee pot from her as she bends to get him a mug, then accepts that too and pours himself a cup. After a few sips, hip leaning against the counter, he says, conversationally, “Last night. Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” 

“I had a nightmare, it happens,” she snaps. “I'm sure you're familiar with the concept.” 

Clint grimaces at his coffee – she can never figure out whether it's too strong or too weak or too hot, or what other offense it dared to commit this time – sets the mug down, and looks at her with a soft, worried expression that makes her wish he'd glare instead, yell, _something_. “Yeah, I am. We both know it. But I'm not talking about the dream, I'm talking about earlier. Are we good for each other? Where's that coming from?” 

She'd been tipsy last night, had spent the evening with couples that don't have a body count between them so large they both stopped counting and women who surely don't choke their partners for fun. It slipped out. She was hoping he'd been too drunk to remember himself, but on second thought, he didn't actually have that much to drink, probably less than she did. Stupid mistake. “Nothing. I was just thinking out loud. Forget it.” 

“Bullshit.” He pushes off the counter just to fall back against it after he's shifted his stance, now gripping it with both hands. “C'mon, Nat, I'm not blind. It's not nothing. You've been weird for weeks now, like, ever since we – “ Realization dawns on his face, and it's like watching the intrepid detective in a movie put together all the clues. 

“It's nothing,” she repeats, harsher than before, her gaze involuntarily flickering towards his neck. Where she _cut_ him, put her hands on him and pressed until he couldn't draw breath anymore, when it's literally part of her job to keep him from harm. It's part of _both_ their jobs. ”Forget about it.” 

Clint stares at her, eyes narrowed. “I’m going back to bed. Your call if you want to join me or not.”

It’s not really a question; he doesn’t wait for a reply and she has no intention of giving one. He pushes past her with an irritated frown and leaves. 

Alone again, Natasha pours herself another cup of coffee. She may have won this round but the game's far from over. No way he's going to let this rest. She switches the radio on and watches the sun rise, pointedly doesn't think about how he's surely lying awake in the next room, busy trying to work out what, exactly, is wrong with her and how it could possibly be his fault. 

 

***

 

Actions, Clint decides eventually, speak louder than words. Something _is_ going on with her, and she refuses to tell him. Years of experience tell him that he hasn't got the spoons to make Natasha spill anything she's dead-set on keeping to herself, so he has to try and figure it out on his own. He's got a few pieces of the puzzle, and he hopes he put them together the right way. 

She's in the living room when he comes home from yet another shared training session she’s opted out of, reading with her legs folded underneath herself. He discards his bag in the hallway, takes a breath, and knocks on the door frame to make her look up and acknowledge his presence. 

“I've got a suggestion to make,” he says when she's turned, and her eyebrows go up. They should find a name for this thing they're doing, give it a word he can use to make his request, rather than having him fumble for a subtle-yet-obvious way to ask each time. 

“Okay,” she says, confusion written all over her face. “Do you want to be a little more specific?” 

He fans his hand towards the bedroom. “There's something I want. You know. Like that.” 

“So you're _asking_?” Of course she catches the hint, can most likely read it in his voice or body language or whatever, given just the right nudge. He nods, and she dog-ears her book and puts it on the table. “Sure. What would you like to do?” 

There's a hint of nerves in her voice that wasn't there the other times, and it reassures him that he's on the right path. Whatever her problem is, it _is_ related to their new extracurricular activities. He debates whether it'd be a good idea to walk over and sit down next to her, but comes to the conclusion that a bit of distance might make this easier for both of them. “I want you to blindfold me again.” 

She unfolds her legs and sits up straighter. “No. We're not –“

“Hear me out,” he interrupts, and she stares at him in disbelief but falls silent. “I know it turned into a disaster last time, but that's precisely why I want to do it again. It's hanging over both of us, and I want to... rewrite the memory, so to say? Do it once more, and have it work out. Make it less terrifying to think about.” 

“I don't think that's a good idea,” she says, shaking her head. “I don't want to risk you getting hurt again.” 

That's about the reaction he expected. Counted on, even. “It'll be different this time. We're not doing the cuffs. You'll know it's a trigger, and you'll know what to look out for. We both do. We'll work with it.” 

Her gaze falls to his hands, his wrist. The scrutiny makes it itch and throb even though it's healed and _shouldn't_ hurt anymore. She shakes her head again, more decisively. “Still. You don't have to break a bone to get hurt. I remember how terrified you were, how freaked out. I don't want to see you like that ever again. I won't allow it.” 

“That's exactly my point.” He holds her eyes, makes sure that she's following, that he's got her attention. “I trust you. You'll look out for me. Nothing's going to happen this time.” 

The seconds stretch endlessly as she seems to think that over, until she stands and takes a few steps towards him, stopping halfway. Her hands are balled into fists, twitching by her side, as if she wants to reach out and touch but doesn't give herself permission. “Why do you want this?” 

“I told you.” There's a fine line here, as there usually is with Natasha. He wants to convince her, but he also knows he'll need to be honest in order to sway her. “Every time I close my eyes while we do this, every fucking time, I get thrown back into those memories. The smell, the pain, the terror. And I want that gone.”

She studies him, as if whatever she needs to know to make a decision about this is reflected on his face, there for her to see if only she looks hard enough. Maybe it is; she once told him he's one of the hardest people for her to read, but she's got lots of practice. “Are you sure you can handle this?” 

“Yes.” That much is true; he wouldn't have suggested it if he thought it'd backfire. “And if it turns out I'm wrong, I'll tell you. Right away. If I so much as think I might be tipping, I'll call a halt. I promise.” 

Natasha inhales, and it's almost like he can _see_ her resistance faltering. “Okay. Under one condition.” 

“Anything,” he says, and he means it. This one isn't for him so much as it is for her; proving a point, reassuring her they're not doing something terrible, this isn't self-destructive, she's not hurting him beyond the physical pain that happens in the moment, and agreeing to it or even finding pleasure in it doesn't mean she's bad for him. 

She closes the distance between them, wraps her arms around his neck and leans in as for a quick kiss, but stops before their lips can touch. “The blindfold, and only that. I won't do anything else. We'll bring you off and that's it.”

The way she says it sounds like a promise and a challenge at once, like she dares him to back out, and it's funny how the prospect sounds more daunting than being bound, getting bit or cut or choked. He doesn't point that out, assumes she already knows. But he won't back out. “Okay. Yeah.” 

“Good.” She leans in the rest of the way, kissing him. When she pulls back, her expression is fond, encouraging. “Pick a safeword.” 

“Does it have to be new? I'd like to keep the one we used last time. Permanently.” He's holding her eyes, aware of how much the word means to both of them, always will. And he likes that; the reminder of the first time she saved him. “Algier.” 

“Fine with me.” Taking his hand, she turns, leading him to the bedroom. It's only as he moves to follow her, the symbolism to this part of their ritual not lost on him, that he realizes he's already hard, the pleasure center in his brain already getting soaked in that mix of fear and exhilaration. He adjusts himself. Considering what they did last time, it seems laughable, how much it scares him to just simply be robbed of one of his senses. Maybe he did underestimate this, the lingering shock from the night he broke his wrist, but what he told Natasha wasn't a lie. He wants this. He _needs_ this. Both of them do. 

In the bedroom, he starts undressing without being told. She nods her approval, and consults his wardrobe for a tie. The sight of it, in this context, already serves to make his breath hitch. He almost requests they use something else, but doesn't think it'll have much of an impact later on. Being without sight will be being without sight, no matter the kind of blindfold. 

She notices his reaction, of course. “Do you want me to find something else?” 

“It's okay,” he says, nodding at the tie. “We'll use it.” 

She doesn't answer, strips off her own clothes in a few quick moves and lies down first. The tie loosely wrapped around her hand, she takes her time to prop up the pillows and arrange them just so. Once she seems to be comfortable enough to take both their weight, she spreads her legs to make room, nods at the space she's made for him. “Come here. Lie down.” 

With a heart that's already beating faster than he'd like, he does, shifting and rearranging himself until she puts a hand on each of his shoulders, starts to massage them gently. If he wanted to prove to her that he trusts her, with this, with anything else, then he's doing a shit job so far. He's trying to be calm. He wants to not be worried. But there's still that faint, throbbing phantom pain igniting his wrist, the rhythm of his breathing has gotten away from him already, and – 

“Don't think about what you might remember. Think about me. About us, here, now.” Her face is so close to his cheek he's feeling her breath ghost over his skin. She pushes him down so that he feels the heat of her body, the contours of her breasts against his back, before she continues massaging the tension out of his shoulders. “It's okay. I'm here. I'm right here with you.” 

And that's what's going to make the difference, he suddenly knows; not even the sensation of her skin sliding against his, which is good, but not good enough on its own. It's her voice. “Keep talking.”

“Oh,” she says, like she didn't expect _that_ – they're usually quiet in bed, no pet names, not much dirty talk – and he feels her swallow more than he hears it. “Okay. Alright. We're not getting started until you’ve calmed down, don't worry. I won't ask for a color right now, I know you're not ready, but I want you to give me one when you've relaxed enough so it's okay for me to blindfold you. Tell me _green_ and we'll begin.” 

She stops kneading at his shoulders and instead wraps both arms around his torso, smoothing them up and down his sides, all the while whispering at him. He loses track of the content of the words at some point, more focused on the sound of her voice than what she's saying, and he figures this is what it must be like to get hypnotized, his world narrowed down to her and nothing else. He experimentally squeezes his eyes shut, finding that it only makes his heart rate spike for a second before his mind springs back to her voice. 

“Green,” he says, keeping his eyes closed. He feels her move behind him, and then there's the fabric of the tie, laid over his eyes and tied around his head. He reaches up to touch it, dumb as it may be, and nods, not sure what he's confirming but feeling like he should. 

“Then go ahead.” Her hands venture lower, passing as far down towards his hips as she can, stroking, steadying him. “Get started. Touch yourself. Slowly. Don't rush it.” 

He lets a few seconds pass before he obeys, acutely aware that, although he's not seeing anything, she's going to _watch_ him, and he wonders whether the command to go slow is entirely for his benefit. He imagines her gaze sweeping over his body, his erection, finds he likes the thought. He plants his feet firmly on the bed, knees bent, legs wide, and loosely grips his cock. She's gone back to whispering into his ear, soothing nonsense, and he concentrates on that and not the haunting sensation of feeling laid out, exposed, the air sliding over his skin like something physical. He swears the temperature in the room has dropped a few degrees since they got started, knows that's bullshit, burrows further into the heat of Natasha's body pressed to his. That's how it started the last time, when things went so violently south, but it won't happen again. He takes another measured breath and listens, lets the sound of her voice lure him back, brushes his thumb over the flushed head of his dick. Despite the low current of fear that's floating through him, or maybe because of it, he's gotten wet already, pearls of precome collecting at the slit, and it shouldn't be so incredible, his own touch, familiar and yet somehow new, like this. He rubs his palm against the underside, then presses it against his balls, thick and heavy already. 

“Come on,” she urges, and he distantly registers that she's gotten wet as well, feels it against the skin of his back where he's nestled between her legs, can smell it too, and that's all the incentive he needs to wrap his hand around his cock and start stroking with long, rough movements. 

She's saying his name, louder, clearly distinguishable between the constant, hypnotic stream of words she's surrounding him with, and without visual cues he doesn't know if it's to make him slow down or go faster. Her hands are still dancing over the side of his body, the ghost of a touch but with increased frequency, and he decides that's his hint; he thrusts up into his own hand, again and again, not trying to hold out. 

But it seems he's misinterpreted. She stills, her hands now wandering up his torso, pinching a nipple as if in reprimand. It achieves the exact opposite, makes him arch against her. “This isn't a sprint, you know? I told you to _go slow_.” 

He obeys and dials down the rhythm of his hand, pressing his body to hers, remembering that he'd imagined her _watching_. That thought alone has another dollop of precome pulse out, and he smears it with his thumb, uses it to ease the way when he pumps his hips again and strokes himself slowly, like she wanted. She presses her lips to his temple, smoothes her hands up and down his arms in a complementary rhythm, and his body moves with it like she's his anchor, setting the direction so all he needs to do is give in and follow her lead. Between her voice and her touch, his mind has gone blissfully quiet, and it's almost like the blindfold doesn't exist. Nothing else exists, just her and him, and instead of being afraid he feels _safe_ , sheltered and protected and cared for in a way he didn't think was possible, didn't think he'd even want. His approaching orgasm seems more like something mechanical – pleasurable, sure, but insignificant, a purely physical response to what he's doing to his body. The real climax that follows on its heels is something else entirely, different also from the panicked, desperate release these sessions usually bring. It spreads out from the inside, flooding him with a deep sense of serenity and contentment, no voices in his head other than hers, no images or memories. He comes in hot stripes all over his hand, his body ever so slightly bending forward with each new surge of pleasure, until he falls back against her chest, sated and inexplicably exhausted. 

Her hands wrap around his upper arms, massaging lightly. “You okay?” 

Not trusting his words quite yet, and also not sure what to say, he nods. He wipes his hands clean on the sheets, reaches up to remove the tie from over his eyes and throw it away. Her gaze immediately zeroes in to search his face, and whatever she finds there seems to satisfy, because she pulls him closer, urging him to move so the full weight of his body doesn't rest on hers anymore. 

Curled into her side, he glances up. There's nothing to _say_ , but something he needs to ask. “How about you? Are you alright?” 

“Yeah.” She smiles, though there's a faraway glint in her eyes he can't parse. “Of course I am. Don't worry about me. Get some rest.”

That's not a promise he can make, just as she couldn't make it in return. Time will tell whether he can believe her, if he succeeded in making the point he wanted to make. For now, he shifts against her, his head resting against her collarbone, and wills sleep to come. 

 

***

 

_”Do your worst, little girl,” says the mark, grinning with blood staining his teeth, arms tied to the chair he’s sitting on, and it’s all wrong. She’s not a little girl; she know she’s not, she knows she’s dreaming, but also, the version of her that lived this didn’t consider herself a little girl or a child then, either. She looks down at the man who said it, twice her age, several feet taller than her and about three times her weight, doesn’t feel the need to correct him. He doesn’t think her much of a threat, is underestimating her to an almost laughable degree, and that can only work in her favor. Hiking up the pencil skirt that was part of her school girl cover, she marches over, sees the hunger in his eyes and knows she can use that too. Natasha straddles him, rolling her hips against his crotch, and he groans, grinning wider._

_“Think you can fuck it out of me?” he asks, and Natasha frowns at him._ Pervert. _She’s nineteen, but her cover was sixteen and that’s the only age he’s got for her. “You’re welcome to try.”_

_Not like sex wouldn’t be a welcome option under different circumstances, but in this case, it’d be redundant. There’s something he doesn’t know: she’s not here for information. This is a kill mission, and right now, Natasha’s just playing with her food._

_She twists her hips again. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again she’s got a knife to his throat, biting into his skin, drawing droplets of blood; just enough to startle him and stain the lapel of his dress shirt. He gasps, eyes flying wide. The dawning realization that he’s let his guard down_ again _and how it’s_ exactly _what makes her so dangerous, so effective, is a delicious sight. They’re always more fun when they think themselves superior._

_Natasha digs the knife in harder and draws back enough to watch him blink at her in confusion, then understanding, as she guides the knife across his throat. His bound hands twitch and he retches, mouth open on a silent scream. He blinks, and suddenly, his face changes. While she looks on in horror, it morphs into a young Russian boy, furtively begging her for mercy. It morphs into a Hydra agent spitting expletives at her, and she knows what comes next, screws her eyes shut to avoid it. That, of course, doesn’t work, this being a dream, and she’s staring wide-eyed as his face changes again and now it’s Clint staring back at her, with that shocked, terrified expression she’ll never forget. His arms are free, and he’s rubbing at his wrist, his neck still bleeding. He’s trying to say something but she cut his vocal cords when she sliced his throat open, and –_

– she jolts awake with a sharp intake of breath. Sitting up, she wipes her hands on the comforter, still expecting to find them covered in blood when she holds them up in front of herself. It’s past dawn, light filtering into the room through Clint’s perpetually half-drawn blinds. She turns to watch the face of the man sleeping next to her, to assure herself that he’s fine, but it’s a mistake; the face she sees isn’t his, Clint’s features blending with the dream, and she blinks the image away, swings her feet out of bed. 

Quietly, she gets dressed. She can’t be here right now, with him. If he wakes and tries to confront her again, make her talk, find out why she’s having nightmares every other night, she might just start screaming and never stop. She flags down a taxi, doesn’t care for the incredulous look the driver gives her when she tells him to get her to the Avengers Tower. The Tower has a gym, and she needs to push her body to the limit, needs to exhaust herself to the point where she can’t think anymore. 

When she steps out into the gym to get started and finds it’s already occupied, she has a hard time not screaming with frustration. 

“Early riser, huh?” Steve asks, stepping back from his punching bag. He seems to have been at it for a while already, sweat darkening the fabric of his T-shirt in places, his cheeks red. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” she says simply, but he squints at her in a way that makes it clear he’s caught the bags underneath her eyes, the haunted edge she wasn’t actively trying to keep out of her expression when she entered. 

“Me neither.” He nods at the mats a couple feet from where they both stand, and she doesn’t have a hard time figuring out what’s stealing his rest these days. “I could use an opponent with a little more finesse than a punching bag. What do you say, let’s go a few rounds?” 

If nothing else, it’ll serve the same purpose of working out on her own, but quicker. Natasha nods. “Sure.” 

They’ve sparred before, so it’s a somewhat familiar dance; it takes Steve a few minutes to relax and let go, remind himself that he might have superior strength but that she’s one of the few people able to make up for it with skill and speed. But then it’s a ballet of strike and counter strike, dodging punches and doling them out, and it’s easy to get lost in the physicality of it, switch to auto pilot and just _react_. She does get a few kicks in, and soon they’re both sweating, the hair at the back of her neck damp and her body singing with the exertion. He strikes, and she swipes back, stooping out of his reach, propels herself forward in one smooth motion to take a swing at him and either she’s been too fast for him to adjust or he’s miscalculated her angle, and her fist connects with the side of his jaw hard enough that his lip splits; he’s enhanced, not invincible. 

But because this is a sparring session, not a fight to the death, she steps back, hands still up but not doing anything, to give him time to recover and regroup. 

“That actually hurt,” he says, grinning as he licks blood off stained teeth and touches a hand to his jaw, and out of the blue, something in Natasha _snaps_. 

She’s not looking at Steve anymore, the images from the dream invading her vision, a phantom layer lowered down on top of reality. _Do your worst, little girl_ and blood on her hands, fingers holding a knife. Nameless men, any number of them, and in between them always and again Clint’s face, either on the verge of orgasm due to the unspeakable things she’s doing to him or mad with fear as she goes too far, loses control of herself; she’s fucking and she’s killing and she’s not sure where to draw the line and which is which and she – 

“Natasha, are you okay?” Steve wants to know and she can’t answer him. She can’t find words, has unlearned how to speak. Instead she just shakes her head and bails, marches off into the ladies’ room, bends over the toilet and dry heaves until her stomach clenches and cramps, then dry heaves some more. 

 

***

 

Clint’s not particularly surprised when he wakes not only to an empty bed but also an empty apartment – disappointed, mostly with himself, but not surprised. He finds two text messages on his phone: one from Natasha curtly telling him she’s fine, she’ll go to the Tower to work out, he doesn’t need to worry, and one from Rogers. That one’s coming a bit out of left field; Clint doesn’t even recall giving out his private number. It’s also considerably longer, and reading it leaves him with a rock settling into the pit of his stomach. He calls Rogers back, listens to what he has to tell him, and then sits down in the kitchen, waiting in silence until he hears Natasha turn her key in the lock.

She’s got her hair in a bun, still wet, and smells of the generic shower gel from the gym in the tower. Her game face is firmly intact, but she seems to give up on it when she steps into the kitchen, gets a good look at his face. “What’s wrong?” 

“Funny, that’s the exact thing I was going to ask you,” he says, and doesn’t care if it comes out sounding brusque. “And don’t try to bullshit me again.” He picks up the phone still lying in front of him, waves it around. “While you were on your way back here, I had a rather insightful conversation with Rogers. I know about the aborted interrogation, and I know what just happened in the gym.” 

Wrong thing to open with, he realizes before he’s done saying it; her expression closes off immediately. But he’s worried, and he’s pissed, feeling lied to despite knowing he doesn’t have the right to be updated on every damn thought going through her head, and he can’t even decide which is the bigger problem. They’ve both kept things from each other in the past, they each did their fair share of bottling up. He did the exact same thing to her after New York, but this is different. This is happening between _them_. 

When she doesn’t say anything, he plows on. “Can you at least admit something _is_ wrong? Because at this point, that’s really fucking obvious.” 

“Sure.” With a dismissive snort, she leans against the door frame. “There’s something wrong with me.” 

And no, nope, not at all what he was getting at. Which she’s well aware of, he’s pretty sure. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” 

“But that’s what it boils down to, isn’t it?” She spits the words out, like a snake with venom. “There’s something wrong with both of us. We’ve killed people, we’ve hurt people, and of course that fact will catch up with us now and then. We’ve both been there.” 

He shakes his head. “Not like this. I’ve never seen you so...” Unhinged comes to mind, but doesn’t quite seem fitting. The worst of it is she’s suffering enough that it manages to bleed through the cracks, and she’s still trying to go through it alone. He can’t say it like that, though; it’ll make things worse.

“So _what_?” she prompts, eyebrows raised. 

“Out of control.” 

It’s the only neutral way to put it he can think of, and it’s still not perfect, too ambiguous. Control is important to her on more than one level. Using this to get her to talk makes him feel like he’s playing her, and it’s not a pretty feeling. He lets it hang unexplained anyway and watches her react. Her gaze flickers away from him, and for a moment she looks... scared. An accusation like that, even if it’s not meant like one, carries weight with Natasha. 

“You don’t slip up like this,” he amends when she doesn’t respond. “No matter how bad it gets. The very fact we’re having this conversation means something awful is going on, and you can’t fault me for being worried. You would be, too. Maybe we should try and sniff out one of SHIELD’s old contract psych– ” 

That breaks her stupor. Her gaze snaps back to him, aghast, and she juts her chin out in defiance. “Are you seriously suggesting I go see a fucking _shrink_?” 

Yeah, he can’t quite believe it either. But he’s suddenly not sure he’s got the spoons to help her with this any further, that he wouldn’t make it worse if he tried. They’ve never needed outside help with each other, but his last attempt sure didn’t have much of a positive effect. “I’m just saying, talk to someone. Talk to May or Hill, talk to Rogers, hell, talk to Wilson.” 

“And you’re telling me you’re okay with me telling them about what we do in bed, too? What _I_ do to _you_ in bed, and why?” She glares him down, must be fully aware of how absolutely, totally not okay he’d be with _that_. 

He swallows and tries to keep the horror he feels at the very idea out of his face, his voice, when he replies. “If it helps you, then yes, I am.” 

She tips her head to the side, a little bit of the anger flowing out of her posture. “I appreciate the sentiment. I know what it’d cost you.” At last, she strides over and sits down opposite of him, arms crossed on the kitchen counter. “You want me to talk? Alright. I’m right here, you’re right here, we have all day. Let’s get started.” 

It’s almost like she _knows_ , like she saw it on his face the second he realized he’s out of his depth. But here they are. “Then tell me. What’s going on?” 

There’s a long pause before she answers; he’d think she was stalling, if it weren’t for her slight, thoughtful frown. He ambushed her. She’s digging for the right words to give voice to something she didn’t want to talk about in the first place. He can relate. 

“I enjoy hurting you,” she says eventually. “I enjoy... making you afraid. And I don’t know what to do with that. Because _they_ taught me to enjoy it, before, and I thought I’d left that in my past.” 

Although he suspected that’s what prompted her spiral, having confirmation makes guilt fall over him like a weight being tied to his shoulders. “You can’t compare the two. It’s not the same thing. At all.”

“But it _feels_ like the same thing. Where’s the difference, really?” 

“The difference is,” he says, and it’s a bit of déjà vu, like they’re going in circles; they’ve had this conversation twice already and yet he’s failed to make his case in a way she can process. “You’re not trying to break me down. You’re trying to help me. We’re playing pretend.” 

She shakes her head. “I _am_ trying to break you down, though. The goal is a different one, but I’m still looking for the right pressure points, and I still get a rush from finding them. Worse, I’m _getting off_ on it.” 

And that, he assumes, is their catch twenty-two. He wouldn’t have asked her to keep doing it if he hadn’t thought they’d _both_ enjoyed it, and now the fact that she _does_ enjoy it is what pains her. “It’s sex. Both of us getting off is kinda the point.” 

Natasha shakes her head again, harder, screws her eyes shut once before she speaks. “This morning, I woke from a nightmare. I dreamed I killed you. I’ve been dreaming about that a lot lately.” 

The thought alone feels surreal to him. “We both know you would _never_ – “ 

“I wouldn’t,” she interrupts, sounding impatient, like he’s forcing her to explain something painfully obvious. “It’s a metaphor, an exaggeration, my brain hammering home a message. I lost control over this once, and you were the one footing that bill. What if I go too far again, and you get hurt even worse? I know you need this, and I want to do it for you, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking on a tightrope and you’ll have to pay for it when I slip.” 

“Whether or not we’re crossing any lines isn’t solely your responsibility, though,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s starting to feel disgustingly selfish, wonders if he should’ve _noticed_ how she felt, during. And that’s the less distressing thought; worse is the sudden fear that he’s pushed her into something she didn’t really want, even though he never thought that’d be possible with her. “We’re supposed to be in it together, and if you don’t feel that way too, I don’t know, maybe we’re coming at it all wrong. Besides, I don’t _need_ this. I’m better with it, yeah, fine, but I could do without it. What I really need is for you to be okay. If it tears you up this badly, it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

There’s another pause, during which he’s terrified she’ll agree – yes, it’s too much trouble, they shouldn’t do it anymore. He meant what he said, would rather live without that new-found kind of release than watch her struggle, but he’d miss it, now that he knows it’s something he _could_ have. 

“No. I don’t want to stop.” Honest surprise flickers across her face, as if that’s not the conclusion she expected of herself, and he lets out a breath. 

“Where does that leave us?”

“It honestly doesn’t bother you?” she asks in lieu of a reply, or maybe working up to it, and inclines her head. “How much I like doing these things to you?” 

“It’d bother me if you weren’t enjoying it.” Her eyes go wide, and he course-corrects, his hand coming up to massage a headache out of his temple that hasn’t quite formed yet. Neither of them has gotten too much sleep lately. “In this context, I mean. I wouldn’t want to do it if you weren’t getting something out of it as well. If you were only doing it for my benefit, that would bother me. The fact you’re enjoying yourself? Really doesn’t.” 

She’s working through this, he can see it; how she unpacks it and takes it apart, the way she approaches every problem in her path. “The last time we talked about this, you said something about reclaiming bad experiences from your past, do you remember that?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Of course I do.” 

“I didn’t have a say in so many things that happened to me either, and maybe with you, I can try and take them back too. Reshape them, make them mine. _Ours._ ” She reaches over to peel his hand away from his face, lay it out flat on the counter, and place hers atop. “That’s probably how it should’ve been from the start.” 

 

***

 

Natasha isn’t disappointed, per se, when she wakes from another bloody, disturbing dream that night. They poked at something somber and powerful that still lurks within her, and these things take time to settle, don’t get fixed literally overnight. At least this time, she can look at his sleeping form and doesn’t want to run, doesn’t see things that aren’t there. She inches closer, runs a hand up and down between his shoulder blades until he stirs. 

“Nightmare?” he asks, and she can feel the muscles in his back shift underneath her touch when he stretches, nuzzling his pillow. Sleepy Clint, she learned early on, can be ridiculously adorable. But maybe that’s the case for everyone; it’s not like she’s got much of a baseline. 

He rolls his shoulders, and she takes her hand away so he can turn onto his side. “Yeah.”

She can’t quite make out his face in the dark, can’t see his expression, but he brushes his finger across her jaw and tells her he loves her. And even though she knows that fact alone won’t change anything, isn’t suddenly going to make things right, something deep inside of her starts to unbend.


End file.
